


Some Fantasic

by slash4femme



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slash4femme/pseuds/slash4femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France and Romano relationship happens in moments, snapshots and love notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Fantasic

I.  
Romano loves Paris and not just because it reminds him of Rome, what with the history, the culture, the architecture, rabid tourists and disgruntled locals. Romano loves the way the city look when it rains, the young business people, school children, the flower shops, the coffee (although he’d never tell France that) and the narrow little streets in the old parts of the city. Actually when it comes right down to it there aren’t that many things Romano doesn’t secretly or not so secretly love about Paris. Mostly though he loves that France loves Rome, that France thinks Rome is the second most beautiful city in the world and doesn’t hesitate to tell him that, regularly. Far more beautiful then Venice, France had once told him and Romano cherishes that.

“Romano?” Long fingers press underneath Romano’s chin and gently turn his face a little from the window, “are you alright?”

Romano huffs a little even though he blushes also, “just thinking about your stupid city.” He says faintly without any real bite, holding a coffee cup loosely between is hands and France smiles.

“Ah yes, isn’t it beautiful.” France presses against Romano’s back, leaning forward a little to peer over his head and out the window. Romano’s thoughts are completely derailed by the feeling and heat of France’s chest against his back, the other nation’s sent and his closeness. France’s hand slips down to lightly hold onto Romano’s waist, and tips of blond curls brush against Romano’s cheeks, and Romano can feel France’s breath against his hair. He swallows, throat suddenly dry.

“Yes,” he draws in a long shaky breath, hands clenching around his coffee cup, “beautiful.”

He can’t seem to think enough to understand what he’s actually just said even when France laughs. Then he is being hugged tight against France’s chest and Romano presses back, doesn’t think just lets himself melt ever so slightly against France. Then France laughs again, presses a kiss against the curls at the top of Romano’s head and let him go.

“I should start dinner.” France wanders toward the kitchen and Romano sets aside his cup and follows.

“I can make it tonight.” He looks away before he meets France’s eyes, “Who wants to eat your food all the time anyway.” 

II.  
France has been writing him love letters since 1956.

Not in the traditional sense of flowing poetic declarations of love, although Romano is sure France can do that just fine. These are smaller simpler things, on post cards of Paris, on pieces of note paper from the many hotels France staid at as he traveled for business, and every once and a while on the back of photographs of Rome. They are almost mundane; recipes France had thought up, wine he thought Romano might like, amusing little stories about things that happened during meetings, and places he wants to bring Romano to. Romano never writes him back, he wouldn’t know what do say, but he keeps them all, in a shoebox in his closet.

In the early fifties Romano starts to list the things he loves about Paris in his journal every time he goes. He’s admired Paris for a long time. Even back when he’d been afraid of France, at war with him more times then he wasn’t, he’d still admired Paris. The city was after all simply beautiful, even if France was a creepy bastard.

Over the years though as Romano grew up and grew more independent as a nation he began to fear France less and less, and France’s open admiration for Rome-for Romano was . . .well, more then simply flattering.

Romano sighs and kicks his legs out as much as he can in the tiny cramped seat on the plane, damn his bosses for being cheep. He flips over the latest postcard where France had written Romano about his stay in Moscow in France’s tiny perfect penmanship. There was something almost childlike and innocently sweet about France writing him letters Romano thought. Although he hated to even think it, it was kind of romantic.

Not that there had really been anything romantic about the way France had started to woo him back in the earlier fifties.

Next to Romano Veneziano mutters a little in his sleep and turns over head falling onto Romano’s shoulder.

By wooing Romano meant that France had invited him to dinner one day and then asked him point blank if he wanted to start dating. Romano had done the only thing he could think of at the time and promptly fled. He locked himself into his apartment and refused to talk to anyone for days. His brother and Spain and been ready to stage an intervention/invasion by the time Romano had dragged himself out of his rooms in search of pasta and good deal of alcohol.

The stupid, perverted, wine bastard.

Romano had eventually said yes.

They’d gotten married six years later.

Well, not officially married, not married like humans did, but Romano really didn’t know what else you called it when your capital city pledged to have an exclusive relationship with another nation’s capital city. Especially when you where already exclusively sleeping with that nation. Especially when that nation was exclusively sleeping with you. When that nation’s spare toothbrush was permanently living in your bathroom, for God’s sake.

Romano shifts slightly, shoving his brother off his shoulder and looks down at the postcard in his hands. He wants to see France; he wants to go back to Paris. Rome is and will always be his home, not even Madrid will ever feel like Rome does to him, but he loves Paris. He can feel the blush staining his ears and creeping down his neck, as in his mind France’s smooth, beautiful voice calls him his Italy. Not even Spain had ever called him that, but for France Rome is Italy, Romano is the only Italy that really matters. Romano looks at the window at the clouds, and fights back a tiny smile. 

III.

Veneziano takes a picture of Romano standing on the street in front of his Rome apartment. It’s early in the morning and Romano’s hair is still a little rumpled and he hasn’t had enough coffee to be truly awake yet as he glares blearily at the camera. Veneziano is laughing when he takes the picture and later he gives a copy of it to Romano. He tells Veneziano he plans on throwing it out. In the end though he sticks it on the bulletin board over his desk in his apartment, for lack of anything better to do with it.

“If you could do anything what would you do?” France asks some weeks later, wine glass cradled in one hand. He’s perched on the arm of Romano’s sofa one leg curled underneath him staring at the photograph of Romano.

Romano frowns “What?”

France sighs, “if you weren’t a nation, and could live any human life you wanted.” He clarifies taking a sip of his wine, and Romano looks down at his own glass.

“It’s stupid.”

France smiles faintly, “I doubt that.”

Romano bites his lip and looks away, towards the window and the busy street outside. He sits on the sofa next to France.

For such a long time he’d felt he wasn’t good at anything. Not like his brother who seems to be naturally good at almost everything except war, and Romano isn’t good at that either. For a long time he’d thought that if he was a human he’d be a priest and dedicate himself to God and the Church. At the time it had seemed like a good life, a life well spent and it still did, it just wasn’t for Romano anymore and he’d come to terms with that. He touches his chest briefly where he can feel the cool metal of his silver cross against his skin, and takes another sip of wine.

“I think if I were human I’d want to own a restaurant.” He says softly before he can really think about what’s coming out of his mouth, and then blushes when he realizes he’s said it allowed. He sniffs and frowns trying to cover the blush and doesn’t look up even though he can feel France’s eyes one him. “Here in Rome, nothing big or fancy, not for tourists, just . . . ” he sighs, “someplace quiet where I could cook and people could eat, drink coffee or wine and talk.” He’s blushing so brightly now it feels like all the blood in his body has been re-routed to his face. He rubs one cheek absently, and takes another sip of wine. France reaches out, lone fingers closing around Romano’s and dragging the other nation’s hand into his lap. Their fingers braid together, their joined hands settling on France’s knee.

“I’ve thought for so long about what I would be if I were human.” France says softly his voice contemplative. “Every time I think about it I imagine myself as something different: a writer, a musician, a dancer, a fashion designer, an artist, an architect.”  
France’s smile becomes a little self-deprecating and his eyes slide away from Romano’s to look toward the photograph pinned above Romano’s desk. “I like your idea though.”

Romano shifts around a little awkwardly trying to remember when the mood in the room had become melancholy, “Well.” He fidgets a little with the wineglass in his free hand and watches France out the of the corner of his eyes, “if you can’t make up your mind you can always come work for me. I’m sure I could use a good pastry chef. ”

France laughs suddenly at that and pulls Romano close, causing Romano to flail widely, his wine sloshing dangerously close to spilling across his lap. He swears and France laughs again and kisses him on the nose and then on the lips.

IV.

“There.”

Romano looks up from the book he’s just bought that he’d been flipping through, “where,  
what?”

“Your restaurant.” France pulls Romano closer to his side, one arm around the other nation’s shoulder and his face tilted towards Romano’s. “I think it would be there.”

Romano blushes at the other nation’s closeness and stares at the abandoned building skeptically. “It looks kind of like a dump.”

“But if it were to be fixed up.” France looks at the building meaningfully and Romano snorts.

“It’s just a daydream. It’s not like I’m really going to have a restaurant or anything.” He pulls at the other nation’s sleeve. “Come on, we have to go pack so we can catch that flight to Berlin.”

France sighs a little but lets himself be pulled away.

V.

Romano’s new favorite daydream during boring meetings is to imagine what kind of bakery France would have. He’s not stupid, he knows even if they were really human France wouldn’t leave Paris willingly. So Romano imagines that they split their long distance relationship between Paris and Rome. France’s bakery would be small, but well lit and elegant. France would work almost alone with maybe an apprentice to help in the kitchen and someone to run the shop. He’d get up before dawn to start baking everyday, even when Romano would be there to try to coax him back to bed.

The Prime Minister coughs meaningfully and Romano jumps a little and glares at Veneziano who is staring at him with open interest. He looks down and notices he’s been doodling desserts and pastry all over the meeting agenda and hastily flips the paper over.

It’s not like it will ever happen but it’s a good daydream just the same. 

VI.

“Well that’s a pleasant surprise.”

France looks up, over his reading glasses, at England who’s holding the stack of notes France had just given him. They often trade notes after important meetings between their two countries to make sure they’re both, literally, on the same page. France shuffles through the stack of papers with England’s dark sprawling handwriting and little, grotesque, swatting creatures doodled around the edges. He wonders briefly if that’s what it’s like to live inside of England’s head and momentarily feels glad he can’t see all of the things England can. England holds up a page of his own with France’s spidery writing across it.

“For once you didn’t draw naked people. I’m impressed.”

France makes a face at the other nation; “you should be thanking me every meeting for stimulating your otherwise quiet boring existence.” His frown morphs into a smirk and England rolls his eyes.

“Say that to me when you’re not married to another nation.” He looks down at the paper in his hands, “what is this? It looks like the floor plans for a restaurant?”

France gasps in mock surprise, “you know what a restaurant is? I didn’t think they had them in your country.”

England punches him on the arms non-too gently. “Lay off! What is it anyway?”

“It’s just a daydream.” France takes the paper way from England and looks down at the little roughly sketched picture. “I asked Romano what he’d do if he were human and he said he’d own a restaurant in Rome.” France smiles fondly.

“You really like him.” England folds his arms across his chest watching the other nation.

“Yes,” France looks down at the paper again. “I really do.”

“France.” England rubs one hand across his face, “have you thought about the future, or about Spain, or anything really. It’s been over fifty years, and you really should consider forming a deeper connection with Germany at least.”

France shakes his head and then tucks the paper into the bundle in his hand before slipping them all into his briefcase. “Romano wouldn’t understand that, and I won’t knowingly do anything that will make him unhappy.”

“He’s older then everyone treats him, he should be able to handle the realities of being married to you.” England points out and France shakes his head.

“Leave it.”

“Don’t treat him like he’s special, it’ll only hurt him more in the long run.”

France glares at the other nations hands clench, “he is special,” he snaps before turning and heading for the door.

“Hey!” England yells after him, but France doesn’t turn around or stop, “hey! You still have one of my pages of notes, you blood frog!”

VII.

When Romano gets the postcard from London with a recipe for crème caramel on the back he does something he’s never done before. He rummages through his desk until he comes across a picture of himself sitting on a short stonewall glaring at the camera. Yet another picture taken by his brother while they had been in Sicily. He jots down a recipe for octopus and ceci bean zuppa on the back of the picture, slips it into an envelope and send it off.

Then he starts to worry. Maybe it was a stupid idea, he’s never replied to any of France’s letters before. Maybe he should have picked some other recipe to send; maybe he’d just ended up looking stupid.

He still feels slightly embarrassed and stupid about it even over a month later. It’s been a long day at the office and Romano sighs as he pushes open the door to his apartment. His phone buzzes and he flips it open to see a text massage.

What kind of wine are you drinking?

I’m not. He writes back and blinks when another message immediately pops into his inbox.

Come outside.

He can’t help but glance out the window, then he’s yanking open his front door to tare down the stares and out into the street where France is getting out of a taxi.

“You should have called me when your plane landed, bastard.”

He hugs the other nation anyway and France’s arms feel good around him and France’s chin presses briefly against the top of his head.

“But the only thing you drive in Rome is your Vespa and I need to have had at least one glass of wine before getting on one of those death machines.” France tells him and then pulls him back into the apartment building and making sure no one else is in the hall before giving him a kiss.

Romano helps carry France’s bags up the stares to his apartment. France stretches out on the couch and Romano gets a bottle of wine for them both.

“I got the recipe.” France says without looking at him and Romano puts the bottle down so he doesn’t drop the extremely costly thing.

“Oh.”

“I liked it.” France stretches his legs out and takes the glass Romano offers him; “maybe you could make it for me.” He smiles and Romano looks away.

“Maybe, but not tonight. I’m making rigatoni with eggplant tonight.”

France takes a sip of his wine, “would you serve it at the restaurant?”

For some reason Romano can’t name the mention of their fictional restaurant makes something inside of him unclench. He nudges France’s legs aside and sits on the couch too. France draws up his knees and Romano leans against them.

“Yeah, but probably not all the time. I’d have a few items on the menu that would stay the same but mostly it would change.” He looks over at the other nation.

“What about you?”

“Hmm.” France eyelids droop half-shut as he considers. “I think I’d have three or four things on the menu each day but that menu would continually change.”

“That’s ambitious of you.”

France smiles, “I’ve been known to be ambitious.”

Romano gets up and head for the kitchen to put the water on for the pasta. Dinner is simple but France seems to like it. 

They pile the dishes in the sink afterwards, before France wraps one arm around Romano’s waist and pulls him close. He holds Romano’s chin with his free hand as he kisses him, gently brushing lips against lips at first until Romano opens his mouth a little bit in impatience. Their tongues touch, light and gentle, and Romano moves pushing himself closer to the other man, and the hand on his chin loosens to stroke down his neck. Maybe it’s just Romano’s imagination but it seems to have gotten really quite hot in his apartment. He moves his hips restlessly against the taller nation’s and France breaks away from his mouth to kiss along the curve of Romano’s jaw.

“So impatient.” There is laughter in France’s voice and the hand resting on Romano’s hip drags around to begin undoing his belt. He gently back them up until Romano is leaning against the counter by the sink. Romano’s belt buckle clinks as his belt falls open and France undoes the top button on the smaller nation’s jeans. His hands slips down the front of Romano’s pants and Romano shudders and leans his head against France’s shoulder.

He pulls the other nation’s shirt open just enough that he can kiss France right on the gentle curve of his neck. Romano rubs against the hollow at the base of France’s throat, the other nation smells like aftershave-sharp and a little bit floral-and a little like soap and sweat. France strokes him in the tight confines of Romano’s jeans and Romano can’t help but gasp a little. France pulls the other nation’s jeans open a little wider and then slowly pull the hand that has been pleasuring Romano free.

“Your cock always gets so wet when you’re excited.” France very deliberately licks his fingers and Romano blushes and glares at the floor not at all sure what’s so sexy about that fact. France makes a noise that sounds almost like a purr fingers slowly sliding in and out of his mouth. Romano stares at him and suddenly wonders what it would feel like to have France’s mouth on him, what France would look like kneeling between Romano’s legs.

“You could suck me.” The words are out before Romano realizes it and he blushes and looks away. He’s never requested anything sexual of France before and France has never done that for him.

France hesitates before shaking his head, “no, I’d rather do it this way.” One arm slips around Romano’s waist as France undoes his own belt and pulls his pants open one handed. France’s erection is heavy and long and Romano swallows when France gently pulls it out of his boxers. He frees Romano’s cock as well, before pressing their lengths together causing them both to sigh in unison. France strokes the pre-cum that leaks freely from Romano’s shaft across both of them and plays with the tip of the younger nation’s cock. Romano leans his forehead against France’s shoulder and thinks he might go crazy. One of France’s hands holds Romano’s hips firmly while the other plays with both of them, stroking and pushing them together, running up their lengths and tease at their slits, while he pushes their hips closer together. Romano’s eyes have glazed over slightly and his hands grip France’s back and shoulders and France finally gives up on teasing them both and simply strokes, his grip firm and jerks his hips into Romano’s. When Romano looses himself he does so gasping into the curve of France’s neck, the older nation not far behind him.

They stay there pressed against the counter until their breathing settles and Romano feels like he can let go of France’s shoulder and he probably won’t fall over. France reaches across both of them and uses an already slightly damp dishtowel to wipe away the mess before gently tucking Romano back into his pants and doing them up again.

“Anything else I can do for you?” France’s eyes are teasing as he does up his own slacks and then drops a light kiss on Romano’s forehead.

Romano yawns and then sighs, “you could make me coffee.” He suggests and France laughs.

“And here I thought you hated my coffee.”

“It’s ok.” Romano suddenly finds the counter under his fingers much more interesting to look at then France, “not as good as mine but I’m too tired to make coffee right now.”

France kisses him again, “then I’ll make it.”

Romano is sitting on the couch when France brings him a cup of lightly frothed coffee. France sits next to him, arm around Romano’s shoulders, as the other nation sips and makes a face.

“There’s too much cream.”

France laughs, “no. There’s just not enough when you make coffee.” He pulls Romano a little closer, “this is how you really make coffee Romano.”

The younger nation glares at him and pushes France away from him, “I make coffee just fine, bastard.”

France makes a disbelieving noise and cuddles Romano close again. The coffee in Romano’s hands is potent and rich and Romano’s mind drifts back to earlier as he sips his coffee. When he sets the cup aside, he can’t help but disentangle himself from France’s arms and slide down to his knees on the hardwood floor. He undoes France’s slacks with hands that shake every so slightly and France’s long fingers tangle in his hair. When France calls him my Italy, Romano can’t breathe from sheer want.

They go do the dishes and go to bed, eventually. 

VIII.

When France wakes up, he pads into the kitchen in only the dress shirt he’d worn the night before. Romano is already up, two cups of coffee behind him which tells France how late he’s slept. The sunlight turns Romano’s hair to dark copper, as he hums along to the radio, slicing grapefruit and blood oranges.

“Put some clothes on.” Romano order immediately upon seeing France’s state of undress, pointing the knife at him in warning.

France ignores both of these things, wrapping one arm around Romano’s waist and snagging his cup of coffee with the other hand.

“Lets go out shopping,” He tells the smaller nation, and takes a sip of biter-rich coffee, “and I’ll cook for you tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> this story was originally written for the hetalia kink meme. 
> 
> Notes:
> 
> \- I am very sorry for the spelling and grammar errors this probably has.
> 
> -I hope this is what OP was looking for.
> 
> -The relationship between Paris and Rome is quite an interesting one. In 1956 "After the turmoil of the war and its long aftermath, Paris and Rome wanted to seal a symbolic and exclusive pact of long lasting friendship" They even had an 50th anniversary party in 2006. 
> 
> -in this story France serves and drinks his coffee with steamed milk. While Romano prefers a very dark roast expresso without any cream at all.
> 
> -also in this story I assume the Italy brothers share equal political and international responsibility for their country.


End file.
